Torment
by TellMeMore90
Summary: What if no-one died on the roof at Bart's. What if both deaths were faked, but neither side knew. What if Moriarty tried to protect his criminal empire, Sherlock fought in secret to bring it down, and for three long years John Watson mourned. Until the day someone starts the end game. - Contains violence and torture.


_I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for the genius of ACD and now MG, SM, BC, MF and the BBC crew._

_I don't have medical training (or torture training for that matter) so if I got anything wrong, apologies. I'll blame the interweb._

* * *

Pain.

That was the only clue that he was awake in the pitch darkness.

The dull ache of hunger and withered muscles.

There was no light and little sound except for the metallic scape as a plate of food was pushed through the hatch in the door. The hatch shut again with barely a sound.

He crawled across the concrete floor of his 2 metre square cell, and by touch alone found the paper plate of food. He grabbed the hunk of rough bread and the cup of water and scuttled back to his corner. He knew from experience to make this last – it was all he would get today.

He wasn't sure how long he had been held. There was no light, no communication, no heat or cold, just the arrival of the bread and water and his own need to sleep.

He assumed he was fed once a day, but had no way to confirm if this was the case except by the gnawing hunger in his belly and the searing thirst in his throat. He dipped the dry bread into his water – it was the only way to force the sparse calories down.

He remembered being captured. He was in his bed, exhausted after a tiring day when armed men stormed his room. It was the early hours of the morning and he was alone in the flat. Held at gunpoint, a black clad gunman broke ranks to hold him down and inject him in the neck. Then nothing until he awoke in total darkness.

He had been stripped of his pyjamas and wrapped in a hospital gown. A thin blanket was his only additional cover – the only padding against the unrelenting hardness of the concrete floor.

That first day he had investigated his prison by touch alone looking for a weakness. He found none within his reach except the steel door and the small hatch. It was the job of seconds to confirm the room was 2 metres square, although the ceiling was out of reach of his outstretched arms. A small latrine in the corner his only luxury. A water pipe above allowed the waste to be washed away, but the water itself was brackish and undrinkable. It had caused his stomach to cramp unbearably before he vomited.

The tap dripped incessantly. His own private water torture.

He attempted to escape when the hatch was opened. The sharp blow of a baton resulted in two broken fingers on his right hand. He used a strip torn from his gown to bind them together. He did not try escape again.

At first he thought to fill his time and keep himself fit by basic exercise – jogging on the spot, sit-ups and press-ups. As his reduced calorific intake began to affect his stamina he decided simple yoga would be wiser. His damaged hand prevented much else. As time wore on even yoga became too much for his starved body.

Now he just sat in the corner. His only exercise, the slow crawl to the hatch for his daily bread and the games he could play in his mind.

In the early days of his confinement he'd attempted to make contact with his captors. He'd shouted, he'd raged, he'd coerced and he'd bribed. He'd offered everything he owned and much he didn't to try to attract someone's attention. Nothing.

How long had he been here? If he was being fed once a day then about thirty seven days. But he wouldn't put it past his captors to vary the delivery of his meals just to play with his mind.

Someone must be searching for him. One of his acquaintances would have realised his disappearance. There were meetings he would not have attended, appointments he had not kept, phone calls he had not made. His absence from the surveillance cameras specially installed around his property would be noticed. Yes, someone would be looking for him and they would not be happy. Whoever had taken him was in for a very bad time.

He took comfort in the thought, even as he curled up on his blanket and dropped into disturbed slumber.

-0-0-0-

Pain. Not just in his head. Everywhere.

His mouth felt furry.

He tried to reach up to his face but his wrists were immobile. He was strapped to a chair. His ankles too were strapped down. He still wore the hospital gown. It reeked from having been worn for so long. A cloth sack covered his head, but even so he could see the room was brightly lit.

How had he got here? Ah, he had been drugged or gassed.

Now it would begin. Now he would find out the who and the why. Now he had a chance.

He heard a shuffle behind him. A guard.

He tried to keep his available senses sharp. The sack smelt overpoweringly of lavender. Its pungency was making him nauseous and threatened to overwhelm him. The pain in his wrists and ankles from the tightness of the straps made his empty stomach churn. But still he fought to remain conscious of his surroundings.

Suddenly, off to his right a door opened and someone entered. Measured stride. Someone humming. A tune he recognized. Bach's Partita No. 1. That particular tune held such meaning. Did his captors know this or was it mere coincidence. No, no such thing as coincidence. A message then. A clue. This was to do with Sherlock. This was about the Fall.

He continued to listen. Eighteen paces before a metal tray was placed upon a metal table positioned about one metre from his left side. Small metallic objects were being arranged.

He was familiar with that particular sound. He had heard it many times, and had even been responsible for creating it often in his career. Someone was arranging instruments on a surgical tray.

Someone was preparing for surgery … or torture. Given his current position the latter seemed more likely.

Not good.

The humming stopped.

Shit! Rough sacking scraped up his face as the sack and a handful of hair were yanked from his head.

He swore as pain stabbed into his skull.

Slowly he opened his eyes only to swear again and recoil at the unbearable brightness of the brilliant white room. After so long in total darkness he felt his eyeballs being seared as his brain struggled to cope with the sudden influx of visual stimuli.

He screwed his eyes shut and swore again.

He tried to clench his fists, but the shackles were cutting off his blood supply and causing his hands and feet to numb.

Keeping his eyes screwed tight he tried to talk, but his speech was slurred, partly from the drugs and partly from a lack of water and use.

Something touched his lips. A straw. He leant forward slightly, feeling for the straw with his tongue. Once located he took a tentative suck. The liquid tasted alright. No obvious signs of contamination. He drank as much as he could, swilling it round his mouth and throat before the straw was removed from his reach.

Again he tried to open his eyes, but still he found the brightness unbearable. He kept his eyes screwed shut.

The humming began again. The same tune repeated again and again. Someone moved from behind him and tore away his gown leaving him naked.

Hands in latex began to palpate behind his right knee. What were they feeling for? Suddenly pain lanced through his leg as some sort of fine needle was pushed slowly into a nerve cluster.

He tried not to scream, but he couldn't contain himself.

"What do you want?" he hissed.

No answer.

Hands behind his left knee. He wasn't sure if he should brace for what he knew was to come or to try to relax. It made no difference. Searing pain and a scream.

"Who the hell are you?" he bit out through gritted teeth.

Again he attempted to open his eyes, but the light and the tears made vision impossible.

"I'm going to kill you when I get out of here."

Still no response.

The threat made him feel better. Until the next needle pieced his flesh.

The pain continued for what seemed like hours. Needles were forced into his body. Some were left, some turned like some twisted form of acupuncture, and some were inserted quickly then removed agonisingly slowly. Some needles triggered muscle spasms that inflicted further agony, and some created sympathetic spikes of pain in other parts of his body.

Whoever was doing this knew exactly where to impale to cause maximum pain and minimum damage. And not once did they say a word.

The final needle was in his neck. And again he sank into darkness.

He awoke back in the black of his cell. He appeared to have been dressed in a new hospital gown. The needles had all been removed. He could smell antiseptic on his skin, so his wounds had been treated. Dear god, they wanted him alive!

He curled into a ball and tried not to whimper. He would not show weakness, he would not allow it. He needed someone to come for him, and he needed them now.

-0-0-0-

Five more times. All the same. Same procedure, same wounds except now the sack was left on.

Five more days of agony.

Now just the touch of a gloved finger to a puncture site was enough to trigger muscle spasms and pain. His body had learned what to expect.

-0-0-0-

He awoke.

The same sack, the same chair.

Door to his right opens.

Eighteen paces. Humming Bach's Partita No. 1. His body tenses and perspiration beads on his skin. His heart rate increases and his breathing becomes shallow. Panic.

Placement of a metal tray. Slightly different sound this time. Heavier. Different implements. Oh dear god!

A straw to his lips. Water.

The kindness before the torment. He can barely force the water down without gagging.

Again the gown is torn from his body by the guard.

A hand in surgical gloves runs a finger along his ribs. His body has become emaciated from his captivity and starvation. He can feel that there is little flesh on his bones now.

Each brush across a puncture site triggers pain.

The hand rests. It has found its mark. The clink of an implement being lifted from the tray. His body tenses in anticipation. A scalpel makes a shallow incision.

He whimpers even as blood begins to trickle over his stomach and down his groin to pool on the chair.

By the time he awakes in his cell, his body is clean, covered in dressings and a new gown.

Again, no-one has made a sound except him. He has begun to beg.

Every movement is throbbing agony.

Death by a thousand cuts. In his mind he pleads for death.

He hates the scent of lavender with a passion.

-0-0-0-

The chair, the sack, the door, the humming, the paces, the tray, the pain.

This time it begins with his biceps. He can feel shapes being carved into the small amount of muscle remaining. First his right, then his left.

Next his right thigh, then his left. The inguinal area. Pure agony.

Three characters each time.

What is the significance? His screams prevent clear thought. Three shapes. Three characters. Three letters. A word?

Oh.

Not a word. A promise. IOU.

It's then he realises just how truly screwed he is.

In between screams he sobs and begs.

All he can say is "Please, no more, please."

A needle and darkness.

-0-0-0-

This time it's a treatment couch. He is splayed out on his front and tied down, hands stretched above his head. No need to remove the gown as it is open at the back.

Oh god, his back. It has been largely untouched until now but he knows that is about to change.

No sack this time as his face is held in the hole of the couch, and he can't see anything except the floor and the feet of his captors – torturers. The couch still reeks of lavender. An extra touch to his torment. The stench makes him want to vomit.

The wounds littering the front of his torso sting and throb with the pressure of his body against the couch. Some reopen and begin to bleed.

The door, again to his right. Twenty five paces this time, to walk round the couch. Again a steel tray of instruments. How did he once consider Bach's Partita No. 1 a pleasant piece? He trembles at the sound, anticipating what is to come.

A gloved hand touches his spine and he begins to cry.

"Please. Who are you? What do you want? I'll give you whatever you want. No more. Please."

No response except an incision down the back of each of his thighs. Slow and steady and agonising. Then across each of his buttocks, then upwards, short sharp shallow cuts up his back until they reach his shoulders.

His gown is soaked in blood. It is sticky and itchy where it has begun to dry. His throat is parched from screaming and his eyes sting from crying. Snot drips from his nose onto the floor.

He is wrecked. He has nothing left to give, but still they want more.

-0-0-0-

He is in agony. Despite the dressings, the damage to his back is excruciating as he wakes firmly strapped to the unforgiving chair. Previous injuries remain unbearably sensitive and throb at the slightest touch. He can scarcely think from the constant pain wracking his body. The stench of lavender brings bile to his throat and causes his body to spasm increasing his agony. His chin rests on his chest as he weeps uncontrollably.

Door to his right. Humming - Bach. 18 paces. Steel tray. Sack snatched from his face. Straw and water.

He's past caring.

"Please, anything. I'll give you anything."

He opens his eyes as his tormentor turns towards him. This time he can see, and what he sees dumbfounds him.

Emotions flash across his face unguarded. Confusion followed by recognition and then realisation and despair.

"NO! It can't be you!"

A taser jabs hard onto his left shoulder and twists mercilessly as it sparks and crackles against his over sensitised skin. His agonised scream erases all emotions except terror.

Tears stream from his eyes and he realises this is the end. The darkness consumes him.

-0-0-0-

He does not hear the door open or the footsteps of a new arrival. The squeak of quality leather soles and the tap of a ferrule on rubber flooring. He does not hear the distinctive sound of the guard snapping to attention. He does not hear his tormentor turn towards the man who has just entered.

"Is he ready?"

"Sorry, earplugs. Can't hear a thing." Fingers swiftly remove the earplugs and they rest in a freshly ungloved palm. "That's better. Now then, what did you say?"

"Is he ready?"

"I would say so. All the triggers are in place. You're people shouldn't have any trouble."

"You've done well. I appreciate this must have been ... difficult for you."

"Yes well, not my area, but in this case I was willing to make an exception. After what he ordered his people to do to Sherlock." A head shakes sadly. "Thank god we got to him before they went too far. After the countless lives he's ruined, this bastard deserves to be on the receiving end for once. Like cutting out a cancer. Make sure this is the end of it Mycroft. We both need to know this is finally finished."

"Oh, it will be, never fear. As soon as we know everything that will be the end, for the organization and the man."

-0-0-0-

The sound of voices permeate his consciousness. He hasn't heard another human voice in so long, so very long. He opens his eyes and slowly raises his head to squint at his nemesis.

All he can whisper is "Please, no more. I'll give you everything."

John Watson turned towards the wrecked body in the chair. "Sorry Jim, did you say something?"

* * *

_Not what I would normally write. After reading some recent fics my muse had a head rush._

_Before you say, John is not being evil. I see him as so angry and disgusted with Moriarty that he helped Mycroft to end things against his medical oaths, but not his military instincts. As he said, like cutting out a cancer._

_Constructive and kindly comments appreciated._


End file.
